Rhapsody
by Finding Beauty
Summary: Overcoming the present is one thing, but the past another entirely, as Christian and Satine face the difficulties of striving for the future. Sequel to Temptation. WIP.
1. Until

**Rhapsody**

  
**Disclaimer**: _Moulin Rouge_ and its characters are owned by Baz Luhrmann, Bazmark, 20th Century Fox, and several other respective individuals most likely, and no copyright infringement is intended. People that you don't recognize who will make an appearance are mine, unless otherwise noted. The use of the name Margaret for Christian's sister is borrowed from fellow author drama-princess, and the portrayal of her is influenced heavily by the story _The Price of Love_ by the same author (go read the story, it's lovely).

**Sequel Note**: This story is a sequel to _Temptation_, and intended to be the middle part in what will eventually be a trilogy. You don't have to read _Temptation_ in order to read this, but I would recommend it, as there are references made to people and situations that you won't recognize otherwise, and some characters who will come out of the woodwork that appeared in the earlier story.

**Revision Note**: As of August 26th, 2003, this story is undergoing a complete revision. After much thought on my part, I completely removed the old story – including, unfortunately, all the reviews everyone was kind enough to offer – and decided to start again with a clean slate. A lot of things will be changed, some others will stay the same, but overall I hope it will be something we're all happier with. I thank everyone for sticking with me, and I hope all of you who reviewed before will be nice enough to offer comments and suggestions this time around as well.

**Dedication**: This is for everyone who read and reviewed _Temptation_, and offered their comments, suggestions, and encouragement to keep this story going. Thank you all.

  
  


**Chapter I**  
_Until_

  
Though Satine had been preparing for two weeks to leave Egypt, now that the day had actually come, she found herself feeling quite a bit of trepidation over the matter. It would be good to get back to Europe – though she had not exactly seen a great deal of it from Montmartre, she missed greenery, and snow, and _rain_ – but she and Christian had also made a home there in Cairo. They had been wed here; their son had been born here; they had made friends who would have to be left behind.

They had already exchanged their goodbyes with Joseph and Verona Paris, who had become quite good friends to them in the past several months, and bade their farewells to Dr. Morrow, who had taken care of Satine during her recovery and later her pregnancy. Their things were packed, the travel arrangements had been made, and now they would be setting off for Christian's family home in England.

Satine exhaled a small, wistful sigh, and closed her diary, where she had pressed a lotus flower between the pages.

"We can come back someday." Christian seemed to read her thoughts as he came up behind Satine and wrapped his arms around her waist.

She smiled, and turned to press a soft kiss to his cheek. "I'd like that."

He returned the smile, before leaning up and glancing around the room that was empty save the furniture that had been there when they arrived. "Did you get everything?"

Satine nodded, and slipped the little book into the smaller valise she would be carrying with her. "I think so."

"Then I suppose it's time for us to go."

  


* * *

  
"This is it?"

"This is it."

"Oh."

Christian watched as Satine leaned out the carriage window to look, and he didn't have to follow her gaze in order to know what she saw. The home of his childhood was a stately brick house that could be more accurately described as a manor, sitting on sprawling grounds with well-manicured gardens and even a pond, seeming much too elaborate for the family that inhabited it.

Satine shifted Olivier around in her lap, then took Christian's hand and grasped it tightly.

Reading into her trepidation, Christian returned the death grip with but a gentle squeeze of reassurance. "Don't worry, darling. It will be fine."

He had, of course, been trying to convince her of this ever since Margaret's letter had arrived, but it seemed as if he would have been better off saving himself the effort. He knew Satine was nervous, but he didn't think it quite constituted the amount of anxiety she was showing. Then again, Christian was also aware of the fact that he looked at the situation much differently – he looked at his father's success and saw too many years wasted behind a desk, that large house more like a prison of rules and propriety.

Perhaps he shouldn't have understated it all quite so much.

"It's so . . ." Satine started, but words failed her.

"Suffocating, uniform, boring," Christian suggested helpfully.

". . . big," she finished lamely.

I know," he responded with a slight nod. "It was Father's wedding gift to Mother, because she wanted a large family, but . . ." He went quiet for a moment, and Satine thought Christian would let the subject settle there, but he continued on after a beat. "I had two brothers who died in infancy, and my mother herself died in childbirth with Margaret when I was six."

Now it was Satine's turn to offer Christian her sympathy and support. After all, she understood what it was like to grow up without a mother. "It must have been very hard on you all."

Christian cast a thoughtful look out the window, as the house loomed closer and closer. "It felt . . . empty, after she died. Father started to work all the time – and even when he was home, he might as well have not been. We had the servants and a governess, but it wasn't the same."

He paused, shaking off the unpleasant emotions, the unhappy memories. "But that was a long time ago. Now we have the future to look forward to," he said firmly, offering a wan smile to emphasize his point.

"You're right," Satine agreed, though she was quickly enough reminded of her worries for that future when the carriage settled to a halt.

One of the dual doors that led into the house opened, and an older man with a stiff posture and an aloof bearing began to descend the steps. Momentarily, she wondered if that was Christian's father, but soon realized it was instead one of the servants coming to retrieve their baggage.

Christian stepped down and helped Satine carefully out of the carriage, as she was still holding Olivier, then turned and looked up at the door. A dozen different emotions flickered across his face at once, hundreds of memories flooding back to the surface as simply as that.

As Satine watched him, she could see in her mind's eye Christian as a child, doing things considered improper in the society in which he was raised, constraints similar to those that had prompted her to run away from her aunt's home so many years ago. She remained patiently quiet, willing to give him what time he needed.

It was a moment before he spoke again. "Well. Shall we go inside?"

Satine paused and glanced down at the baby in her arms, then looked back to Christian and gave her husband a resolute nod. "Come what may," she said.

This seemed to reassure Christian, and his expression became a bit less uncertain. "Come what may," he agreed, and began to lead the way up the front steps and into the house he hadn't entered in what seemed like a lifetime.

Satine was immediately met with a picture of elegant, but austere efficiency. The entrance hall was decorated with fine things in muted shades, not at all unlike her conservative aunt's Parisian home, and while sunlight streamed in through the long-paned windows and danced across the polished hardwood floor, something still seemed stifling about the air.

She had a very difficult time seeing Christian existing here. He was so vibrant and full of life, and certainly did not fit in with the orderly routine this household probably undertook each day.

"Master Christian!"

They both turned, somewhat startled at the sudden interruption of the silence, to see a woman had appeared at their right, a beaming smile on her round face.

Christian brightened immediately upon sight of the woman, and while it might have seemed inappropriate to hug one's household staff, he hadn't exactly always been one to adhere to formality, so he did just that. "Emma, it's good to see you again."

"Oh, you too, you too," Emma responded with a hint of sentimentality to her tone. Then she pulled back, almost as if inspecting Christian to see if he had taken care of himself. Seemingly satisfied by what she saw, she nodded and shifted her gaze to rest on Satine and Olivier.

"You must be Christian's wife!" she exclaimed excitedly. "And little Olivier . . . Oh, Margaret's told us all about you from your letters."

Overwhelmed by the sudden show of enthusiasm, Satine offered the older woman a smile. "It's a pleasure to meet you," she said, and instantly wished she had a bit more interesting conversation to add.

"I've been looking forward to meeting you for so long," Emma went on, not seeming to notice Satine's loss for words. Instead, she reached out for the baby, and then paused, remembering herself. "Oh, may I hold him?" she asked.

"Of course," Satine responded, holding Olivier carefully out to Emma.

"Oh, he's quite lovely," the woman said, sighing contentedly. "Looks just like his father when he was a baby, he does. How old is he?"

"Nine months," Christian provided with a sudden swell of pride. He moved over to wrap his arm around Satine. "Emma was my nurse when I was little."

The aforementioned nodded her agreement to this. "It's so good to have you back, Christian. Things simply haven't been the same around here without you – it's so strange to think you've been gone two whole years, and now here you are with a wife and an adorable baby!"

Christian's countenance sobered slightly as he glanced sidelong down the hallway to their left. "Where are Father and Margaret?" he asked after a second's hesitation.

"They're in the library," Emma replied, her voice taking on a similarly serious tone.

Satine looked up, offering Christian a smile of reassurance. According to Margaret's letters, his father truly had changed, and Christian's sister didn't come across as the type to lie. In fact, Satine was rather certain Margaret would even be mortified if she lied unintentionally. Even still, Christian's trepidation was understandable – he was about to see the man he had left on less than pleasant terms with two years before.

Christian returned a mustered smile of his own.

Emma handed the baby back to Satine and turned to look at Christian again. "I've had Matthew put your things in your old room, and we've prepared a nursery for the baby in the room right next to yours."

Then with a final smile to them both, the woman bustled off, leaving the couple. Christian fell in reluctant step down the hallway, leading Satine around a corner and toward a pair of doors. He reached to take hold of one of the door handles, but paused and looked back at Satine first.

She was almost as nervous as Christian, and reached down with her free hand to brush stray wrinkles out of her sensible suit. She had picked it for its simplicity, as it was not as bold or daring as the other things in her wardrobe, and on the lengthy trip back to London from Cairo, they had discussed just how much they should tell.

Though they didn't want to lie, they had decided that there were a few things that Christian's family would probably be best off not knowing. Both saw no reason to say anything about Satine's previous place of employment, the Moulin Rouge. Thomas James had heatedly told his son before he left that he would waste his life at the infamous nightclub with a can-can dancer, and it was likely to give the old man a heart attack if he knew the truth.

They also decided that, while it was accepted by their friends, they were not going to mention they had been married only six months. It could create a scandal for the family, and they didn't want Olivier to, someday in the future, have to deal with such things as the fact that he had been born before his parents were wed. They had been together longer, of course, and that was what really mattered. Their real vows had been exchanged far before any rings or formal ceremony.

In fact, they were probably the only couple in the world that could profess true love occurring atop a fifty foot elephant.

Christian opened the door of the library, and together they stepped inside.

On the divan rested a young woman that had to be Margaret, a book held in her hands. At seventeen, she had the sort of prettiness that was uncultivated, so to speak; a feminine figure left almost shapeless by modest attire, her glossy hair of chestnut brown pulled into a perfect chignon that seemed too severe for the sweet face. There were a few subtle similarities in appearance between her and Christian, but the most obvious was their eyes, though Margaret's tended a bit more toward grey.

"Christian!" she exclaimed, and immediately moved to throw her arms around her brother's waist in a hug that shattered the prime and proper picture Satine had created.

Satine stepped back to allow the two siblings their moment, then offered a smile as Margaret turned back to her, more timidly assessing her new sister in law.

"And Satine," Margaret said softly but genuinely. "It's so nice to finally see you. I've been looking forward to this for quite a while." She paused, and her attention shifted to the baby. "And Olivier. Oh, he's so beautiful."

As Margaret cooed over Olivier, Satine turned just in time to see Thomas James rise from his leather upholstered armchair. The older man straightened his waistcoat and cleared his throat, and Christian seemed to want to hesitate, but he continued further into the room. He stopped a few feet from his father, and remained there, not quite certain what to do or say.

"Hello, Father," he said quietly.

"Christian," his father returned formally, extending a hand to his son as if he were a stranger.

Satine was taken aback. Though she could hardly remember her own parents, this was not how she felt one should act toward their children. A handshake, of all things?

Christian, however, was unfazed. He gazed down at his father's hand for only a beat before he accepted the gesture and shook it, tentatively reaching out to settle his other hand on the older man's shoulder. "It's . . . good to see you again."

"Indeed," Mr. James returned, releasing Christian's hand and turning to face Satine. "I assume this is your wife?"

Satine, often taller than the men who had courted her, felt two feet tall under the scrutinizing gaze the man offered her from beneath his bushy eyebrows.

"Yes, Father," Christian responded, his voice gathering strength. "This is Satine."

For a moment, Christian's father paused. It seemed for a heart-stopping moment as if he would utter some word of disapproval, but he finally nodded somewhat curtly to his daughter-in-law. "It's a pleasure to meet you."

"The same to you, sir," Satine responded politely. It took the summoning of all her good manners for her to continue to function under the pressure of this meeting, but she was managing to pull it off rather stunningly.

"And," he said, his eyes settling on the baby, "this is my grandson?"

Satine nodded, an idea springing to mind. "Would you like to hold him?"

For the first time, a smile appeared on the man's severe features, and he nodded. "Why yes, I would."

  


* * *

  
After dinner that evening, Christian sat alone with his father in the seclusion of the older man's study, fidgeting in his place in the leather armchair. Satine had gone off with Margaret, who intended to give her a tour of the house, and they took Olivier along. Judging from the expression of Margaret's face and his father's own behavior, Christian had the distinct feeling it had all been orchestrated in order to allow them the opportunity to talk.

He watched as his father poured two glasses of brandy and accepted a tumbler of the liquor as it was handed to him. Though he rarely drank – aside from wine with dinner and the absinthe Toulouse and the other Bohemians occasionally coerced him into during his time in Montmartre – Christian took a sip of it to calm his nerves.

"I'll be the first to admit," his father said, moving over to the take the armchair across from Christian, "that I had my doubts about your going to Montmartre."

Christian suddenly became very interested in the contents of his glass as he wondered just where this conversation was going to go. Was his father going to suddenly say, 'and I was right,' then say something disapproving of Satine?

"But," the older man went on, "I see now that you've done better than I had expected. You have a lovely wife, Christian . . . and a fine grandson for me."

Not having expected such a change in the direction of the conversation, Christian looked up abruptly from his drink, and knew the surprise was evident on his features. "Th-thank you," he stammered self-consciously, still amazed at how even now he had a difficult time standing up to his sire.

"I've also read your book," his father continued.

Christian raised his eyebrows in anticipation.

"Granted, not the sort of literature I would typically indulge in, and I will say I found the story a bit risqué for my liking, but it was an admirable work."

Vaguely, Christian wondered if the giddy feeling forming in the pit of his stomach was from the liquor he'd imbibed or the off-putting fact that his father was actually praising him – approving of what he had decided to do with his life. "I . . . thank you," he said again, for lack of anything better. For a poet, he felt of few words indeed at the moment.

"I'm proud of you, son," Thomas James said. "And I'm only sorry it's taken me this long to say it."

  


* * *

  
When Christian left the conversation with his father and returned to his old bedroom, Satine was sitting at the window seat with Olivier in her lap, gazing out across the grounds. Though it was dark outside, she could tell why Christian had preferred this particular bedroom, even when there were larger ones to be had in the stately house. It afforded a perfect view of the sprawling lawn and gardens.

She looked up from her perusal as Christian entered the room, and offered him a smile, noticing that he didn't seem at all unhappy or distressed in the aftermath of his conversation with his father. "This is a beautiful place," she said. "How did your talk with your father go?"

"Better than I expected, actually," he admitted, closing the door and moving over to sit alongside Satine. "How did you know?"

"Margaret told me while she was showing me the house," Satine explained, handing Olivier to Christian as the baby reached out for his father.

Christian smiled softly and contemplatively as he gazed down into the face of his son. Somehow, having a child of his own helped him to understand his father better – he could actually comprehend the protective feeling that a parent had for their child. "He told me that he thinks you're lovely," he said, "that Olivier is a fine grandson, and . . ."

Hesitating, he looked up at Satine again. "And that he's proud of me. I never expected to hear something like that from him; he was always so against everything I wanted to do with my life. But I suppose I realize now that he was only trying to look out for me."

Satine nodded her quiet understanding. "Your father loves you and Margaret both. I could tell that even from being around him a short time. He seems to have a rather gruff exterior at times, but it's not so hard to see that he cares."

Christian nodded in return, just as Olivier let out a wide and sleepy yawn. He laughed softly, and rose from his seat, walking to put Olivier in the cradle that had been brought into the room. "And what did you think of Margaret?" he asked, after he had the baby settled for bed.

"I think she's perfectly nice," Satine said honestly. "She's a dear girl."

Christian paused for a beat, before moving to close the other window to block out the night chill. It was midsummer yet, but the evening air and a light rain made it cooler than the Egyptian climate they were used to, and the once unnoticeable humidity was now almost stifling.

"Do you think you could be happy here?"

"Of course," she replied without hesitation. "I'm happy wherever you are, darling, no matter if it's here, or Paris, or Cairo."

Satine held out her hand to Christian, and he resumed his seat alongside her again. Taking his hands in her own, she entwined their fingers together. "_Once I was jaded_," she sang softly, "_thought I knew a few things . . . understood so little, had so much to lose._"

"_Once on a journey, through the streams and mountains_," Christian returned, "_I stumbled on the rock that brought me close to you . . ._"

"_I will follow you, I will follow you . . . even when winter is coming_," Satine continued, leaning in to press her lips gently against Christian's.

"_If I caught the world in a bottle, and everything was still beneath the moon . . . without your love, would it shine for me?_" Christian sang contemplatively, wrapping his arms around her.

Satine smiled and settled into the comforting circle of his embrace. "_Here in your arms where the world is impossibly still, with a million dreams to fulfill . . ._"

"_Here in your arms when everything seems to be clear, not a solitary thing do I fear . . ._" Christian turned to gaze out the window, a smile curving his lips as he focused on the sky. "_Oh, if I caught the world in an hourglass, saddled up the moon and we would ride until the stars grew dim, until the time that time stands still . . ._"

And as they sat there in the comfort of each other's arms, it seemed as if even a single moment of happiness could be made to last a lifetime.

  


* * *

  
**Author's Note**: Lyrics are Felicia Sorenson's "Once," which can be found on the soundtrack to _Le pacte des loups_ (or _Brotherhood of the Wolf_), and Sting's "Until," which I edited a bit to suit my purposes, is on the _Kate & Leopold_ soundtrack. Many thanks go out to Mary Helen (fellow author Natasha Rostof) for beta reading and actually asking me occasionally about this story!


	2. Destiny

**Chapter II**  
_Destiny_

  
  
Over the course of the next few weeks, things picked up a steady rhythm in the James household. Christian and Satine settled in more comfortably, and Thomas and Margaret were certainly happy to have the company, as they had been living there with only themselves and the servants for two years. Olivier was quickly approaching his first birthday, and it was frequently professed how much more like his father he looked with every passing day, though he seemed to embody quite a few of Satine's more openly mischievous traits.

Everything seemed like perfect bliss as Satine and Margaret strolled through the gardens, enjoying the pleasant weather of early autumn. A light breeze was blowing, chasing away the last remnants of summer heat, and the edges of the leaves that rustled on the trees were just beginning to turn from green to richer shades of gold. Even the sun seemed to be readying for a winter's nap, for even though it still shone brightly down on the landscape, its light was mellow and certainly not as harsh as the white hot rays of the preceding season.

"It's still so strange," Satine remarked to her sister-in-law, who was walking a pace behind her, carrying Olivier. "Everywhere I look, I see something green, even if it is getting ready to turn brown. Egypt was one color all the time – sand. Oh, the sky was lovely and blue, and the Nile . . . but England's so much lusher. And it's nice to finally have rain!"

"Just wait until you stay here a little longer," Margaret said lightly, "then you'll be wishing it would stop raining all the time."

"Oh, but we had no rain the entire time we were there," Satine complained good-naturedly. "And snow! I can't wait for Olivier to see his first snowfall." She trailed off, laughing softly at her own exuberance – who knew that coming back to Europe would be so exciting? She had loved the exoticism of the African country that had become her home away from home, and she missed the friends she had made there, but it was so lovely to be back on somewhat familiar ground again.

"What about France?" Margaret asked after a moment. "Do you ever miss it?"

Satine considered the question briefly before offering a noncommittal shrug. "I don't really miss it that much. The city was too crowded and dirty – the countryside is much lovelier. And besides," she added, "home to me is really wherever Christian is."

The younger girl smiled. "You two seem very happy together."

"Oh, we are . . . I really never dreamed I could meet someone like him."

"I'm glad you found each other," Margaret said with certainty. "When we were growing up, that was always his dream – to fall in love and live happily ever after."

"I think everyone dreams of love," Satine mused, enjoying the openness she and her sister-in-law shared already, "only not everyone realizes it . . . or accepts it. I certainly didn't know it until he came along. He swept me away with a song! And when we danced, it was like dancing across the sky."

Almost as if on cue, Christian appeared behind Satine with a smile on his face. "Anyone I know?"

"Just the most charming, handsome, wonderful man in the entire world," Satine informed him, as she turned and he wrapped his arms around her waist. They leaned in for a kiss, but she paused just short and added teasingly, "Only I don't think you know him."

Christian furrowed his brow. "Oh, I see," he said, adopting a tone of mock and decidedly overdramatic dejection. "Well, then, I'll just go . . ." He detached himself from her and turned, shoulders slumped.

Satine laughed lightly, thinking again that Christian really could have made a good actor, if only he could overcome his stage fright when he was actually on a stage. She reached out and grabbed his elbow, tugging him back toward her. "I suppose you'll simply have to do," she said reluctantly.

"That's very kind of you," he responded, wrapping his arms around her once more.

"Oh, I know," she said with a nod, leaning in to kiss him. "In fact, you're really not half bad."

Margaret, standing off to the side holding the baby, looked as if she wasn't certain whether to be embarrassed or amused at the show being put on by her brother and his wife. She finally seemed to settle on a mixture of both, a flush rising up from her collar and toward her smiling face.

The gardener, on the other hand, looked over the top of the hedge he was trimming and offered the couple a scandalized stare. Christian glanced sidelong at their audience, then once again stepped back from Satine and put a 'respectable' amount of distance between them. "Oh, you got something from Marie," he said, lifting a letter.

She took the envelope from him, and together they all began to wind their way back up to the house, Satine reading as she walked. Then she stopped abruptly, her brows furrowing together in a frown. "Oh."

Christian came to a stop alongside her, a question in his eyes. "What is it?"

"Oh, Christian," Satine said quietly, looking up at him with tears in her eyes. "It's . . ."

As she was unable to finish, Christian took the letter as she held it out to him without another word. He scanned its contents, and suddenly felt his legs go numb. The letter from Marie was in her usual small, cramped handwriting, with a perfunctory greeting at best before she launched into her true reason for writing it – Toulouse was dead.

Christian drew in a shaky breath and closed his eyes against the words, but there was no way of blocking out the truth that one of his friends was lost. Toulouse had been the first truly friendly face he had met in Montmartre, the first friend to help him, and undoubtedly the one who had stuck by him the most loyally. It was because of Toulouse that he hadn't simply sat in his garret and moped on the opening night of _Spectacular Spectacular_ but instead done something about it.

Seeming to share his thoughts – knowing that it had been in many ways because of Toulouse that she and Christian had found each other to begin with – Satine came and wrapped her arms around him. He returned the gesture, and together they shared in their grief.

  


* * *

  
The following day, Satine and Margaret had taken Olivier and gone to London to shop, and Christian sat at his typewriter in the sunshine, trying to write. It had always helped him in other times of pain to put proverbial pen upon paper, articulating his feelings into words, but at the moment his creative ability seemed to have failed him. He wanted to write a poem, or some sort of tribute to Toulouse, something in memory of the loyal friend who had done so much for him. He wanted to compose a letter to the other Bohemians, consoling them on their loss, but knew that such an action would be consolation only to himself. They would seek solace in the Green Fairy first.

Then a short rapping sounded at the door, causing Christian to surface from his thoughts. He knew from the knock that it wasn't any of the staff, which aside from any visitors, left only one person. "Come in," he called, and turned to watch as his father entered the room.

"Christian," the older man greeted with a nod and a glance around the room. "Margaret and Satine have already left for London, then? Good, I wanted to speak with you alone."

Christian didn't respond, lost in gazing absently at the blank sheet of paper in his typewriter.

"I heard about your friend, the painter," his father went on after a beat, as he moved over to examine the items scattered across Christian's desk. "I'm sorry to hear of it."

Christian nodded slightly, turning to look up at the older man – and for once, he was not surprised to find sympathy there. "Thank you," he offered quietly.

"It also got me to thinking," Thomas said. "As you know, when you left here two years ago, I disinherited you . . . and I fully had no intention of ever reinstating you in my will." He paused, idly glancing over the Underwood typewriter that rested upon the desk, the instrument momentarily deviating him from his train of thought. "I remember I was quite put out when you brought this contraption home."

"That I'd spent my money on something frivolous instead of saving it," Christian added, recalling that day and how upset his father had been. _These ridiculous notions of being a writer!_

"In any case," the older man continued at length, "I actually was heartened to receive that letter from you while you were in Paris . . . and then to receive the news of your marriage. I found myself wondering if at last you'd grown up. And though I don't intend to speak ill of the dead . . . with the news you received yesterday, I realized just how much your ties to – that place – have been severed."

He allowed himself a pause in which he stepped over to settle tiredly into an armchair, an air of weariness about him that Christian had not before noticed. "I'm getting old, Christian. I need an heir. Margaret's a bright and intelligent girl – she looks more like your mother every day . . . how I miss her – but I can't expect her to take over my legacy."

Christian shifted uncomfortably in his chair. Over the seventeen years since his mother died, it was a rare occasion indeed to hear his father speak of her – and moreover, he thought he knew where the conversation was going, and he felt a sinking feeling in his stomach because of it.

But instead of what he expected, his father instead said, "Which is why I'm turning my position over to your cousin Owen."

Christian opened his mouth to respond, but as proper understanding of his father's words sunk in, he could do little more than simply gape at the older man. "W-what?"

"Owen has been a great help to me in the past two years," the older man reasoned, cautious of his son's reaction, though he knew no reason that Christian should protest it – after all, the boy had previously run from the prospect of having to take up the helm of the family business. "I wouldn't force him now to give up the position he's worked so hard for, but if you've had second thoughts –"

Christian shook his head to silence the offer before it could be completed. It certainly had not been what he was expecting at all, but he couldn't say he was displeased with the decision. Taken aback, perhaps, but his cousin had always been likeable, and though he was never what one would call close to Owen, Christian knew the younger man had always been business-minded, something that suited him very well to take over for Thomas James.

"I realize he's still young," his father went on, "but only a year short of the age I was preparing to turn the bank over to you. He's a bright boy, and I think he can handle it . . . he has a good head for numbers, and this way we will at least still be keeping it in the family."

Christian nodded numbly, still processing the information. He felt a lightness he hadn't felt since returning home – and though many might have read his father's actions as denying his son yet again, Christian knew that this was his father's way of _accepting_ him, of finally trying to understand what Christian wanted to do with his life.

"I do hope you're not disappointed?" Thomas questioned, misreading his son's silence.

"No," Christian said, perhaps a bit too abruptly. He paused, evening out his tone, and added, "I'm happy for Owen. I think you made the right decision."

"And this way, you can still write – or whatever it is you do," his father added with a gruff sort of smile that was unpracticed at being nice, or at least openly showing it. "However, I am going to reinstate you in my will, and save Olivier a position, should he grow up with the notion of becoming a banker someday."

Christian dissolved into a relieved and appreciative laugh. The money meant nothing to him, but everything else . . . that was more than he ever would have hoped for, in his wildest dreams. "Thank you, Father," he offered sincerely. He rose and moved over to the older man, and as his father rose and extended a hand, Christian instead pulled him into a sudden hug.

Thomas hesitated, momentarily uncertain of how to respond, then he reached out and patted Christian awkwardly on the back. "You're welcome . . . son."

  


* * *

  
Satine returned with Margaret and the baby later that evening, laden with packages. Though rarely one to spend money carelessly – despite the extravagance implied by the title of 'Sparkling Diamond,' she had always been cautious with her budget – she had bought quite a few things, as much of their clothing, purchased in Cairo, was unsuited to the coming English winter.

Christian sat in the middle of the bed with Olivier on his lap as Satine pulled things from boxes and bags, though currently he was preoccupied with attempting to wrest a hat from the baby's curious grasp. "No, no, Olivier . . . we mustn't play with Mama's new hat."

Olivier screwed his face up in an expression of disapproval and reached out after his stolen plaything, but he was quickly enough distracted as his mother produced a stuffed bear, which he accepted with an 'Oo' of delighted interest.

Satine leaned over to wrap a warm winter scarf around Christian's neck, tugging it by the ends to pull him in for a brief kiss. "What did you do today, darling?"

Christian considered the question, before finally shrugging in return. "I spent a while trying to write . . . then Father came to talk to me."

"Oh?" she asked, too casually, as if she were aware of the fact that the man had wanted to speak with his son. Margaret had, of course, explained it while they were out shopping, though the girl hadn't known exactly what it was her father planned to speak about.

"He's adding me back to the will," Christian said.

"That's a good thing, isn't it?" Satine asked, raising an eyebrow at his distant expression. She removed the scarf and folded it back up, then began to put the various articles of clothing away.

"I suppose," he responded, lying back on the bed and watching as Olivier played with the floppy, button-eyed bear. "I mean – I don't care about the money . . . but I am happy about what it signifies."

"Then why do you look like he disinherited you all over again?" she prodded, sitting down on the edge of the bed and gazing down at him. "He doesn't still want you to become a banker, does he?"

"No." Christian shook his head. "My cousin Owen is taking over the company . . . I'm happy for him. But I don't know . . ." He sighed and sat up again, attempting to find a way to properly express what he was feeling. "I just – do you ever think about what you've left behind, Satine?"

Satine furrowed her brow at the suddenly pensive turn Christian's thoughts had taken on, and left somewhat put out by the unexpected question, she could only offer a helpless shrug. "I – I haven't really thought about it. I've just been thankful to be alive . . . to be here with you, and Olivier."

"But that's what I mean," he said. "We've been living from moment to moment, taking things one step at a time – getting out of Montmartre, getting you well again, getting the book published, getting back here and straightening things out . . . I've been thinking a lot about Toulouse, the dreams he never got to fulfill, and I know it's not good to look _too_ far ahead, but you can't have forgotten your dreams. For years, you wanted to become an actress, just as much as I dreamt of being a writer. But you gave that up. Don't you miss it?"

Satine lifted a hand to brush Christian's hair back from his face, her own expression pensive as she considered everything he had said. Somewhere deep inside, she knew she did still have many of the wants and desires she'd had before, and while none of them called out to her the way they once did, they were still very much there. "Christian . . ." she trailed off, at a loss for words, her heart aching for the thought he seemed to have put into this.

But he saved her the need to say anything else just yet. "_Would_ you like to act again?"

Satine hesitated, uncertain of how to respond. "What are you saying?"

"I'm saying that I could write plays," he said, "and you could star in them . . . We could wait until Olivier's older, if you want, but it would be something for us to do – together."

For a lingering moment, she simply stared at Christian, then – to his great alarm – her eyes filled with tears.

"Is it – I mean – if you don't want to do it," he offered hesitantly, "it was . . . just an idea."

"I would love it," she finally said.

"You . . . you would?"

"Yes. More every day, you're making my dreams come true. I love you so much, Christian."

He glanced down modestly, and when he looked back up at her, it was with a sparkle in his eyes. "Well, I kept telling you . . . all you need is love."

  


* * *

  
**Author's Note**: On the death of Toulouse-Lautrec, even after research on the matter, I couldn't pinpoint an actual date for it aside from simply '1901,' so if it happened earlier within the year, use the reasoning that it took Marie a while to get around to writing them. If it happened later . . . well, I apologize in advance, and if anyone knows the actual date, know I would be much appreciative. 


	3. Celebration

**Chapter III**  
_Celebration_

  
  
"I don't understand why it's called _Much Ado About Nothing_," Satine commented, as she sat perched in a chair reading the aforementioned play. It was good, certainly, and amusingly entertaining, but the title was entirely too contradictory, in her opinion. Or perhaps that was the idea. Christian paused and looked up from his typewriter, a curious expression on his face. "Why not?"

"There's too much happening. I think it should be called _Much Ado About Everything_," she said matter-of-factly.

"Well," he responded with a grin, "I'll be sure to tell William Shakespeare that the next time I bump into him."

Satine rolled her eyes in exasperation, but set her book aside anyway and walked over to peek over Christian's shoulder at what he was working on. "And what's your play called?"

"I'm not at liberty to tell you that," Christian said, smiling up at her with a satisfied look on his face. "But I decided it was time to take – ahem – Sarah and Colin's story and turn it into a play. Of course, you'll be the star," he informed her, reaching to pull her into hi slap.

"And you'll be my leading man?" she countered, raising an eyebrow at him in challenge.

He immediately looked put out by this suggestion, and was quick to shake his head. "Darling, you know I'm no actor," he stammered out.

"It's just a little stage fright, you know," she said carelessly, leaning to kiss him. "Nothing you can't get over. If the Argentinean could deal with his narcolepsy, then certainly you could handle being in front of a crowd for a while . . ."

Perhaps that wasn't the best analogy, but then again, Satine wasn't aware her male lead in _Spectacular Spectacular_ had passed out between scenes.

"I'm afraid I'm much more content with writing and directing," Christian reasoned. "But I'm sure we'll find someone capable to fill the role."

"He'll have to be handsome," she decided, straightening back up just short of kissing him. He gave a look of distress at this, but not so much as the expression he wore as she continued on, "Oh, yes, handsome . . . charming . . . a talented singer."

"Not too handsome," Christian said mutinously.

Satine grinned and bent down to kiss him, then they settled comfortably together – or at least as comfortably as two people could get in a desk chair meant for one, but it was a fairly common place for them to end up, somehow, so they were used to it. "Don't worry," she assured him, "you and Olivier are all the good looks and charm I need."

"Good," he replied, though he hadn't really been worried in the first place. "Oh . . . speaking of Olivier – Father and I were talking today."

"Oh?"

"Mmhm . . . Father wants to have a party for his first birthday. Not just for Olivier, of course, but to sort of introduce the two of you to the family, and to . . . welcome me back into the fold, so to speak." Christian trailed off, seeming a bit embarrassed at his family's own social practices. "He's also planning to announce his decision about Owen. And it will give you the opportunity to meet the rest of the family."

Satine stood up abruptly and turned to look at Christian with a dubious expression on her face. "The rest of the family?" she echoed faintly.

"Yes," he said. "Aunts, uncles, cousins . . ."

"Oh."

"Don't worry," Christian assured her with a smile, rising and wrapping his arms around her. "They're going to love you. I just know it."

  


* * *

  
Over the next two weeks, as invitations were sent and preparations were made, it quickly became clear to Satine that this was not the 'little' party that had been described. The extended James family seemed to stretch much farther than she originally assumed, and as the day approached, she felt more and more overwhelmed at the idea. For all the fact she had been a social butterfly in Montmartre, that was out of necessity, and this was entirely different. Would they like her, would she make a good impression?

When the evening of the party arrived, however, things went far more smoothly than she could have hoped for. She had met so many people over the course of the night that she knew she wouldn't remember them all, as in addition to the family, several friends were in attendance, and there were quite a few matrons of complete non-relation that were called 'aunt' whomever anyway.

Satine had just backed away with a glass of punch, but even as her feet were getting the opportunity to relax, Christian appeared at her side again and steered her toward yet another group. It amazed her how Christian went through the motions of this; though he had always been the shy type, he seemed to have an attitude around his family that suggested it was best to go ahead and get it over with. He'd been kissed on the cheek so many times he was sure he must look like he was wearing rouge, and there were still people that had yet to be greeted.

More than once that evening, he had wondered if it was actually worth it to be welcomed back into the family.

This time, Christian led Satine to an older couple who had a young man standing off to the side. "Aunt Rosalind, Uncle David, Owen . . . I'd like you to meet my wife, Satine."

The two elder Jameses nodded in greeting to Satine and offered their noncommittal words of pleasantry, but Owen went a bit further out of his way to make her feel welcome. He stepped up and took her hand in his, lifting it to his lips for a brief and chivalric kiss, then – blushing slightly – he said, "Enchanté, madame."

"Oh, merci," she responded, instantly charmed by Christian's younger cousin. It didn't hurt matters any that Owen happened to resemble Christian quite a bit, save for the fact he had lighter hair, and he wore a pair of wire-rimmed glasses over eyes that tended more toward green than blue or grey.

That meeting lasted only a few more moments before Christian spotted someone else that he needed to offer perfunctory greeting to, but before they could make it that far, they were interrupted by a pair of familiar faces, Verona and Joseph Paris, whom they had invited but not actually expected to attend.

"Surprise," Verona greeted with a grin.

"You stole my line," Joseph chided her lovingly, before he turned back to Christian and Satine and reiterated, "but what she said – surprise."

"It's good to see you again," Christian said, now smiling as well.

"You didn't come all the way from Cairo just for this, did you?" Satine asked, raising an eyebrow. She would have been flattered if they had, but it seemed a bit much to think that even two friends would trek thousands of miles to attend a mere party.

"Actually," Joseph replied, "'Rona has some relatives over here, and we're planning to spend the winter with them."

"So we decided to just go ahead and come early," Verona finished for him. "Besides, we wouldn't want to miss Olivier's birthday – being his godparents, it wouldn't seem fitting, would it?"

"Well, I'm glad to see you both again," Satine said. "Will you be staying long?"

"I've got some business with the British Museum . . . so we'll be sticking around a few days," Joseph said.

"Wonderf – oh," Christian said, just as he was tugged aside by an unidentified relative. "Excuse me a moment – make yourselves at home!"

Satine watched despairingly as Christian was dragged away, then she turned back to her two friends and exhaled a small sigh. "You have no idea how much of a relief it is to have you two here . . . I know about a handful of the people in this room. I swear Christian has to have five Aunt Elizabeths."

Verona laughed and reached to pat Satine reassuringly on the shoulder. "It will get better with time. How are you holding up, otherwise?"

"Oh, well . . ." Satine took a moment to think about the question, sweeping a glance around the room. Christian was still engaged in conversation with a group of people she knew she had been introduced to, but whose names she still couldn't recall. "Christian's father is actually quite a nice man, and I couldn't ask for a better sister-in-law than Margaret."

Verona nodded, and then Joseph broke in. "What about Christian?"

"He seems happy to be back," she mused, glancing over again to her husband, who had moved on to yet another flock of guests. "I was worried he wouldn't adjust, considering why he left in the first place, but things have gone surprisingly well. His father's going to announce tonight that he's turning over the company to his nephew, Owen, and Christian's content that he won't have to become a banker after all."

"Well, it sounds like you're getting on well here after all," Verona said, smiling. "I thought maybe we were going to have to come and rescue you. Joseph was actually looking forward to the prospect."

Her husband shot her a look, but remained surprisingly silent.

Satine laughed softly. "No, I'm actually happy here – much happier than I thought I might be."

  
Across the room, Christian had just retrieved Olivier from Margaret when he was waylaid by his Aunt Rosalind. He drew to a halt and offered the older woman a smile, repressing his inner urge to turn and run. It seemed as if he had spent the entire night doing nothing but greeting relatives whom he hadn't seen in ages – some of them, he was certain he had only spoken to once or twice ten years ago, and that his departure from England had nothing to do with them not speaking. "Hello again, Aunt Rosalind . . . how are you enjoying the party?"

"I'm having a lovely time," she responded, "but I hadn't gotten to see the baby yet, and I have been wanting to." With that, she leaned in and offered the little boy a smile. "He is rather adorable, Christian – he looks just like you did when you were a baby."

Christian was just about to offer some excuse in order to get away from her when his father walked up, further delaying his escape.

"Thomas," Rosalind said, looking up at her brother-in-law, "I would like to again commend your thoughtfulness. David and I couldn't be happier that you've recognized Owen's hard work – and I know he appreciates it as well."

"Well," Christian's father said, looking uncomfortable in the manner of someone who often does nice things, but doesn't quite like having them recognized, "as you said, he is a hard worker."

Rosalind nodded slightly, then her gaze rounded on Christian again. He had never really paid much attention to his aunt, but he noticed just then that she had very sharp green eyes, that compared to the soft gaze of Owen, were quite keen and piercing. "Are you planning to return to the company, Christian?" she asked, giving him the impression that she didn't quite want such a thing to happen.

"Er," he said, shifting uncomfortably from one foot to the other. "I-I'm not really sure. I mean, I've only been back a short while, and –"

"And we'll see when we come to that point," Thomas finished firmly for his son, who silently thanked him for the rescue. "Christian knows he's always welcome back, but it's his decision to make." He paused for a beat, nodding to the younger man. "I think my grandson looks tired; why don't you go get Emma to put Olivier to bed?"

Rosalind watched as Christian disappeared back into the crowd and Thomas went off elsewhere, just before her own husband appeared at her elbow. "I know what you're thinking about, Rosalind," David said, "and it is completely unfounded."

She frowned slightly; how could her husband be so blind? Rosalind knew her brother-in-law's concerns were most certainly going to settle with his own family. If Christian's little stint as a writer failed, then would he not come crawling back to the security of his father's bank? And of course, Thomas was going to want to give the favored position to his own son, and where would that leave Owen? She shook her head, reaching down to brush a wrinkle out of her skirt.

"Don't be silly, David. You know I appreciate everything your brother has done for Owen –"

"And I know you're worried he's not going to get the recognition he deserves." David scanned the guests, until he found his own son mingling with a group of his cousins, a smile on his face. "This is Owen's night to shine – don't ruin it."

"I'm not trying to ruin it," she snapped. "_You_ should be showing more concern about our son's future."

"Why would Thomas go out of the way to announce Owen as his heir, if he didn't intend to follow through on it?" David attempted to reason with her, his hazel eyes dark and serious. "His own son has no intentions to become a banker. I've known Christian all his life, and I know that he's happy as a writer – it's what he's always wanted to do . . . and I think my brother has finally accepted that."

Rosalind sighed softly, her eyes lingering over the crowd. Of course; it was just like her husband to look only at the present. But what of the child, Olivier? Someday, he would grow into a man . . .

"Put aside your concerns, Rosalind," he said, "and try to be glad for once that our family has been reunited."

She nodded slightly, but her gaze still didn't waver from where her nephew and his wife stood talking to another young couple. "Reunited, indeed."

  


* * *

  
**Author's Note**: Yay, I got another chapter out so soon! And as you can see, from the latter part of this chapter forward, the story is really taking a different direction than before. While I liked all the history-building parts, and am sorry to sacrifice them, it's really necessary in order for the story to flow like I need it to. If it comes to a point where I can't work any of them back in at all (though I do plan to work more with Jacqueline, just later on), I may post them separately, as companion pieces to the series in case people care to read them.

_Much Ado About Everything_ is a reference to my good friend Moonlit Aria's _Harry Potter_ story of the same title, which she had just recently been working on when I wrote the first draft of this chapter. And as always, reviews are much appreciated, especially since I'm lacking them now!


	4. Undue Obligations

**Chapter IV**  
_Undue Obligations_

  
If there was one thing that Christian James had learned to fear early in his life, it was the feeling of being trapped. It wasn't a fear manifested in a physical sense; he wasn't claustrophobic, or afraid of heights (something demonstrated by the fact that he carelessly took up a precarious perch atop a fifty foot tall elephant), and he wasn't one to run from obligation or responsibility. But to be forced into something that you didn't want . . . well, that was a different matter entirely.

That had been the initial appeal in Montmartre for him – the Bohemian spirit was so free, wild, uninhibited. When he journeyed to the infamous Mount of Martyrs nestled in the French city of Paris, Christian had expected to experience their reckless freedom himself. Of course, things had proved a bit different after he met Satine; she had been like an exotic bird in a gilded cage, and even if he hadn't fallen madly in love with her at first sight, Christian still wouldn't have wanted to see her confined to that life any longer.

And now, he could hardly digest the words his father was speaking, catching only snatches here and there: "Terrible accident . . . a shame, really . . . need you to help out . . . wouldn't ask . . . absolutely necessary . . . just for a while . . . do it for the family . . ."

Christian swallowed against the painful tightening of his throat. It was as if an invisible noose were being pulled around his neck; he knew this was nothing permanent, but even still, it could not change his feelings about it. Just when he had thought everything was finally worked out . . . this had to happen. 'This,' of course, was Owen's accident. And not just any accident; his cousin had been out riding, when the horse threw him, snapping his collarbone, fracturing his arm, and bruising several ribs. He had been lucky to take the brunt of the fall on his shoulder rather than his head; it had likely been only that and the fact that the ground was wet that had saved him from complete disaster.

Such as it was, however, no matter how one chose to look at it, things came down to a simple fact: Owen was going to be unable to fulfill his duties for an indeterminate amount of time; time in which Thomas wished for Christian to step up and take the responsibilities his cousin could not handle. Christian feared what it would mean – it carried the potential that perhaps he should never get away from the confines of four walls and a desk of paperwork. But that was probably simple paranoia. Owen's accident had been just that: an accident.

And, as badly as he didn't want to allow himself to get drawn into this, Christian also didn't want to hurt his father – not when they were just beginning to make progress in their relationship. "I suppose I could do it," he finally said. "For a while, until Owen gets better – or you can find someone else."

"I hope this isn't going to slow down your plans too much," his father said, seeming sincerely regretful that this had all come up. Thomas James was not an ignorant man – he knew that the catalyst in the former breaking of his relationship with his son had been him attempting to force Christian into a path he didn't wish to follow, and the last thing the older man wanted to do was create a rift just when things were being properly mended.

"Satine and I still haven't made up our minds yet," Christian said, referring to his wife's and his own joint decision to look into possibly procuring a theatre of their own – he had made more money than he thought with that 'little book' of his, and with Satine as the lead actress it would be a good investment. However, they had been indecisive over whether Paris or London would be the best location. Paris had its obvious bad memories, but there was also likely to be more of an audience for Christian's style of writing there – unless the patronage of London was willing to open up a bit with something new.

"I really had not intended this, son, I want you to know that," Thomas emphasized, moving back around his desk to sit heavily in the broad leather chair. "I wouldn't do anything now to deliberately interfere with your life, no matter what happened between us in the past."

"I know," Christian responded, feeling a small bit better about things. Now the task of explaining this to Satine lay before him. He rubbed at the back of his neck, an unconscious nervous gesture. "I just hope I can remember everything you taught me before."

"I have the utmost confidence in you," his father offered.

"That means a lot to me," Christian said – and found he meant it.

* * *

Satine took the news surprisingly well. She had never thought of herself as particularly selfless or even giving – there was a reason why she'd earned the reputation of being the Sparkling Diamond: 'loving' men for money. And though all that was past her now, she couldn't deny the fact that she still had some of the same desires, and a lurking ambition. Her dream to become an actress had not died, and while it was not at the forefront of her thoughts any longer now that she had found some contentment in her life, it was something of a disappointment to learn of this setback – largely because she had been looking forward to sharing that dream with Christian.

For his part, Christian seemed utterly miserable about it all. He was also giving off the air of feeling guilty about it, which Satine didn't like. She could understand it, knowing him as she did, but she didn't think it right, and as she sank down beside him on the divan, her features were drawn into a sympathetic expression. "Darling, it's not your fault that Owen got hurt," she offered.

"I know," he said, turning to look at her. "It's just . . . frustrating. Every time we seem to get things worked out, something else happens."

Satine frowned. It was . . . well, strange, to see the utterly optimistic Christian entertaining such dire thoughts. Perhaps the strain of being back at home really was too much on him. She had thought he was adjusting well, and was even comfortable with his old surroundings again, but this behavior belied that. "It's still not your fault. Do this for your father . . . he needs you. When Owen gets better, we can pick up where we left off. And it's not as if this is stopping things entirely – you can still write, and we can still make plans."

"So you're not too unhappy?" he asked, a worried expression on his face.

"No," Satine said, smoothing her hand along his brow, as if she could make the worry there vanish. "I understand. Christian, we've been through entirely too much to let this come between us."

It was true. Christian had to accept the fact that this seemed like little compared to, say, a malicious Duke dogging your every step, trying to have you killed or thrown into jail; or a phantom illness that had only a slim chance of being cured; or even an Argentinean falling through your roof and a dwarf wanting you to rehearse as a sensitive, young, Swiss poet goat-herder for a play . . .

Compared to all that, this was a small matter indeed.

* * *

Owen James was in pain; he could not recall a time in his life when he had ever been injured so badly, or so terribly sick. It had been five days since his accident, and while he was at least conscious and coherent now, that still didn't mean that he was comfortable with his situation. He felt as if such a silly accident had let a lot of people down; his parents had been so proud of him, Uncle Thomas had entrusted him with an important position . . . and he had been so silly as to allow himself to get thrown from his horse, a mistake a novice was taught to avoid.

He was just resting and mulling over his situation when the door of his bedroom opened and his mother looked inside, a concerned expression on her face. "Owen? Are you awake, darling?"

"Yes, Mum," he responded, shifting slightly. "Come in if you'd like . . . I could use the company."

Rosalind stepped into the room and eased the door shut behind her, and then moved over to fluff the pillows. "How are you feeling?"

"A bit cooped up in here . . . it's strange, after being able to get out all the time," Owen said, laughing softly. "But I'll be all right. I'm just thankful it wasn't worse."

"Ah, you're such a brave young man," Rosalind replied, leaning down to smooth back his hair and kiss him gently on his forehead. "I'm happy that you're looking at things so optimistically. I'm certain with this attitude, you can be back on your feet in no time at all."

Owen frowned slightly. "I just have the feeling that you and Father are disappointed in me. And I hate that I've put Uncle Thomas out – what is he going to do about things? I know he liked having me there because he couldn't take care of things any longer himself . . ."

"Owen," his mother said sternly, sitting on the edge of the bed, "your father and I are far from disappointed in you. You are our pride and joy – and this was but an accident . . . it could happen to anyone."

"But what about the bank?" he persisted.

Rosalind's lips pursed unhappily. "Your uncle has gotten Christian to take over in the meantime . . . until you're better."

If Owen detected his mother's unease with the situation, he didn't show it. It was more likely that he did not share her concerns at all; he was one of those rare, innocent, trusting souls, and it would probably never occur to him that his cousin might want to take over his position at the bank. It made sense to Rosalind, of course – why wouldn't Thomas see this as the opportune time to have his own son following in his footsteps, as he had always wanted it to begin with?

"I hope it's not too much of an inconvenience for Christian," Owen said, his eyes sliding shut drowsily. "I know he never had any intention to become a banker like me . . ."

"Well, don't you worry about it," she said. "Christian probably doesn't mind . . . not at all."

* * *

Oftentimes, it was difficult to realize just how much time you spent with one person until you were apart from them. Since Christian had taken over – albeit temporarily – for Owen, Satine found she had a great deal of free time on her hands. In some ways, she thought it was probably a good thing; they both needed to occasionally spend time with other pursuits. Unfortunately for them, the time they were granted apart was consumed with the burden of work in an unwelcome occupation for Christian, and for Satine, well . . . she liked England well enough and she was reasonably happy with Christian's family, but she frequently felt out of place when he was not around.

Margaret seemed to sense that very restlessness in her sister-in-law, and so tried her best to keep Satine occupied. She would suggest going on a walk, or doing some other leisurely activity, or she would even simply sit and talk, often about her family life and what she and Christian had been like as children. Satine appreciated the effort, and of course she also had Olivier to take care of, but it simply wasn't quite the same. Christian went out of his way to try and make up for it as well, but he usually came home tired, and Satine tried to be understanding and not allow him to see too far into her growing unhappiness. After all, she had fully meant what she said to him about this minor setback not mattering . . . when she said it. She only hoped that she didn't reach a point at which she wished to take back the words.

Satine quickly discovered that she also disliked being reminded of how much time she and Christian spent apart – which probably made the current situation a bad decision. Margaret had suggested that they visit Owen, as she hadn't seen her cousin since the day they found out about his accident, and then he hadn't exactly been in a state to really receive visitors. They were well-received by Owen himself, but Rosalind – who, for some unexplainable reason, made Satine uncomfortable – soon suggested that she and Satine should gracefully depart from the room in order to give the cousins a bit of alone time.

Satine initially saw it as a gesture of isolation on the part of Christian's aunt, though she soon enough dismissed the thought as silly and unjustly paranoid. Even still, sitting in the parlor with no one but Rosalind – who was nearly a stranger – for company, she thought she had room for the suspicion to be creeping in.

"I know this must be difficult for you, my dear," Rosalind said.

Satine raised an eyebrow in question. "Pardon?"

"Christian," the older woman clarified, leaning over to set down her teacup. "Why, it's been nearly two weeks since Owen's accident, and we've barely seen Christian out of the office. It seems as if he's settling into his new job quite comfortably."

Times like these, Satine wished that English were her first language. While she was fluent enough in it as a second, sometimes it proved difficult for her discern subtle little things about someone's tone. "He's dedicated to his family," she replied, clearly sitting the fence on whether she directly agreed to Rosalind's statement or not.

"Yes . . . yes." Christian's aunt paused, pursing her lips. "No one ever expected Christian to pursue that career path, of course," she finally went on. "But it looks as if he has something of a talent for it, or else he wouldn't be able to cope."

Satine frowned slightly and resisted the urge to cast a glance toward the doorway, which would have no doubt been construed as impolite. However, she did wonder when Margaret was going to return and rescue her from this awkward conversation. "He told me that he used to work in the office with his father when he was younger."

"Oh, yes, I recall that," Rosalind said. "Yes, his father had quite hoped that he would take on the business someday. Naturally, Christian had his mind set on other things." Another pause and she affected a bit of a smile this time, as the course of what she was saying completely changed direction, "It must be horribly disappointing for you to have him tied up as he is to his work. I am sorry, my dear, I know how terribly lonesome it can get."

Having all the less than pleasant things she had been thinking about brought to light, Satine stared down into her tea and willed herself not to let it show. When she finally thought she had control of herself, she looked back up and responded, "It's really not so bad at all. I've had plenty of things to occupy myself with, and this won't last forever."

"No," Rosalind replied, though she sounded less than convinced, "I don't suppose it will . . ."

The cryptic nature of her comment led Satine to wish Margaret had not returned when the younger woman finally did walk back into the room. She wanted to question Christian's aunt further on what she meant – but there was little need to drag poor Margaret into the conversation when she hadn't even been involved to begin with.

"Owen fell asleep," Margaret said, walking over to take a seat next to Satine.

"He has been doing that a lot lately," Rosalind said graciously, without skipping a beat. For all an impartial observer knew, she and Satine may as well have been discussing the weather. "It has nothing to do with your company, my dear, I assure you."

Margaret laughed, and so that began a new conversation entirely, which had nothing at all to do with how busy Christian was or how lonely Satine was becoming. And so she pushed each little doubting thought aside and tried to ignore it, all the while wondering when the lock would break and it would all come spilling back out.

* * *

**Author's Note**: No, I am not dead. I know that when I began to revamp this story, I promised that I would update more frequently . . . but unfortunately I hit a bump in the often rocky road of creativity, and it took me a while to finally resolve some issues I was having with my plot. However, now I have that taken care of, and even as I prepare to post this chapter, I'm in the process of writing the next. Thank you for sticking with me, and please review! 


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